


Time Yet for a Hundred Indecisions

by celeste9



Series: Merlin 1x10 matching codas [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e10 The Moment of Truth, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeste9/pseuds/celeste9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 1x10. Sequel to In a Minute There Is Time. Merlin reacts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Yet for a Hundred Indecisions

**Author's Note:**

> Title and end excerpt are again from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock".

As Merlin closed the door to Arthur’s room behind him, he braced a hand against the wall to keep himself steady, not quite trusting his legs to hold him upright. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes, but all he could see was Arthur’s face, blue eyes pleading.

Merlin rubbed his shoulder where Arthur’s strong fingers had dug into him, hard enough to bruise, maybe. Arthur’s sad, earnest face was replaced with the angry Arthur of Ealdor, the demanding Arthur. The betrayed Arthur.

This Arthur in turn faded to Will, his hands clutching desperately at Merlin, the choked sound of his voice, the gift he’d given with his death-- to Arthur, and to Merlin, too. Tears sparked again behind Merlin’s eyelids but he’d promised himself he was done crying. His eyes felt dry and burning and tears wouldn’t bring Will back.

_What would you have done with Will if he hadn’t died?_ Merlin had wanted to ask Arthur. _After he saved your life, would you have still taken his?_ But Merlin hadn’t been brave enough to ask.

He was never brave enough. He could let Will take the blame for him, let Will die, but he couldn’t tell Arthur--

“Merlin?”

Merlin started at Gwen’s voice and watched her hurry down the hall towards him, come from Morgana’s room, surely. He could see the concern dripping off of her and couldn’t bear it. He looked away.

“Merlin? Are you alright? You don’t look well.”

He forced a smile but didn’t know if it looked right. Probably more like a grimace. “Fine, Gwen. It’s late, isn’t it? You ought to be getting home.”

“I could say the same for you. Arthur being impossible again?”

“Always.”

“Merlin, you could-- No one would think any less of you if you needed a break. Some time off? After what happened… Arthur-- Arthur would understand. He cares about you.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said again. Maybe if he said it enough times he’d believe it.

Gwen’s hand was warm as she grasped his fingers. “Try to get some rest, will you? Arthur may be hard to please, but even he doesn’t expect you to wait outside his door all night.”

Merlin’s smile was more genuine this time. “Good night, Gwen.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

Merlin knew it was late and he knew it was pointless to continue to linger in the hallway. He knew he should return to his own room. Gaius was probably wondering what was keeping him. Instead of leaving he pressed his palm against the heavy wood of Arthur’s door. Arthur was just on the other side, perhaps, sitting in the chair, or maybe he’d already gone to bed. If Merlin pushed the door open, he could-- he could say--

What was Arthur thinking, behind the door? What was Arthur feeling? Rage, sorrow, betrayal. Merlin had never wanted Arthur to feel those things on his account. He had tried his best, tried to protect Arthur, tried to fulfill his _destiny_ like the dragon wanted, but it was all a little much, wasn’t it? Arthur was too much. Arthur with his pride and his arrogance and his damned smirk, Arthur with his bravery and his compassion and his charisma.

Merlin should have kept his distance and everything would have been easier. But he couldn’t help the fact he was an awful servant, could he? It was all Arthur’s fault, he made Merlin want to--

Arthur knowing would be such a weight lifted. No more secrets, no more lies. Arthur would know and he would accept it, or not. But Arthur was such a mass of contradictions, how would this be any different? His eyes had said _trust me, tell me,_ even as he buried his nails in Merlin’s shoulder.

It was selfish, Merlin thought, to ask Arthur to protect him. To ask Arthur to lie for him-- him, Merlin, a servant. A friend, Merlin thought, at least, but still-- a servant. How could Merlin ask that of Arthur? How could Merlin put Arthur, the future king of Camelot, in that position?

Merlin wanted to trust Arthur. He wanted to believe that Arthur could see the grey that Uther couldn’t, that Arthur could see it wasn’t magic itself that was evil, only the ones who wielded it wrongly. He wanted to believe Arthur would never take the life of someone who had offered him their own. Will, or Merlin.

Merlin thought of Arthur’s teasing that was good-natured, now, and he thought of Arthur smiling at him. He thought of Arthur trying to keep him from drinking the poisoned chalice and then finding the Mortaeus flower to save Merlin’s life. He thought of Arthur coming all the way to Ealdor to help at the risk of Uther’s displeasure.

And then Merlin remembered the furious lines of Arthur’s face as he’d confronted Merlin and Will. He remembered Arthur saying magic is dangerous. He remembered Arthur standing next to Uther as Uther ordered the death of the druid. Most of all, he remembered Arthur’s fierce loyalty to Uther.

_Arthur… Arthur, you know I would never…_

“I’m a sorcerer,” Merlin whispered against the door. “I’m a sorcerer, Arthur, and all I want is to keep you safe. Do what you must, I’ll understand.”

For half a second Merlin imagined that he could hear movement from within Arthur’s room, but in truth all was silent and the wood was thick. Merlin breathed out and pushed off from the door, not quite sure whether his quiet confession falling on no one’s ears made him feel better or worse.

_And indeed there will be time  
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,  
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;  
There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
There will be time to murder and create,  
And time for all the works and days of hands  
That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
Time for you and time for me,  
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
Before the taking of a toast and tea._


End file.
